


Jaime Lannister Investigations - Episode 11 of 13

by ShirleyAnn66



Series: Jaime Lannister Investigations [11]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood, F/M, Modern AU, Remington Steele AU, Violence, animal deaths that may be considered cruel and unusual, nothing graphic, talk and threats of rape/sexual assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-10 07:21:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12906984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShirleyAnn66/pseuds/ShirleyAnn66
Summary: Series Summary:The great detective, Jaime Lannister? He doesn’t exist. I invented him. It was working like a charm—until the day he walked in, with his green eyes and mysterious past.Episode 11:Lord Roose Bolton's disappearance sends Jaime and Brienne to the Dreadfort, where they come face-to-face with the Dreadfort Killer and find themselves in the fight of their lives.





	1. Teaser

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** This episode is a dark one. Violence; blood; talk of rape/sexual assault; non-graphic deaths of animals that may be construed as cruel and unusual. Nothing explicit, but some scenes will be disturbing.
> 
>  **A/N:** As most of you know, writing the last of these episodes was my NaNo project this year. I didn’t think I was going to make it, but I actually have full first drafts of the last three episodes completed and just needing to be edited. This means posting should be faster (although maybe not for everything that’s left). Still, it’s looking like this series will be wrapped up by the end of January at the latest. I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry about that…

Awesome banner by the equally awesome justme. :)

***/*/*/*/***

The days following the downfall of Petyr Baelish and the clearing of Ned Stark’s good name go quickly, mainly due to the ongoing media feeding frenzy.  The struggle to control the Baratheon estate only seems to intensify once Ned is once again in the fray.

Jaime and Brienne do their best to stay out of the spotlight, but even they are being followed by varysazzi and appear in the tabloids on a regular basis.  On the slow days, there’s always at least one social media report speculating on the nature of their relationship that quickly devolves into personal insults against Brienne because of the way she looks, and against Jaime because of the questionable ethics of a boss having an affair with their subordinate.

“If they only knew,” Jaime murmurs one night after a particularly salacious—and completely false—story hits the entertainment news.  “We still haven’t made it to the top of the Eyrie, so it certainly wasn’t us who got caught in that storeroom…although I guess they have a point about the boss thing.”

Brienne rolls over and snuggles against him, sliding her leg over his.  “I suppose, technically, I’m _your_ boss.”  She lifts her head and frowns at him.  “Does that make it better?”

He grins, turns off the television, and tosses the remote onto the night stand.

“Well, not to the public at large.  Then again, who cares about them?  We know what goes on between us.”  He slides his hand down her back, pulling her closer.  “Anyway, I prefer to think of us as a partnership of equals, although in some things, I’m completely yours to command.”

She grins as she kisses him.

*/*/*/*/*

They watch WNN over breakfast and listen to the breaking news that Roose Bolton, the Lord of the Dreadfort, has been officially reported missing by his wife, Lady Walda.

Jaime nods at the screen and says, “Do you think that’s the work of the Dreadfort Killer, or an admission of guilt?”

Brienne frowns.  “Definitely not the Dreadfort Killer,” she says.  “He murders women, not men.  As for admission of guilt...maybe, but probably not.  As far as anyone knows, the murders only began a couple of years ago, and he’s been Lord for decades.  No, he’s most likely just run off with a younger woman and will resurface in a couple of days.”  She shrugs.  “He’s done it before.”

*/*/*/*/*

When Lady Walda Bolton walks into their agency a couple of days later and asks for their help, Jaime thinks he should have seen it coming.

*/*/*/*/*

The Dreadfort is a town, a manor house, a crumbled castle, and a forest, and all of them live up to the name.

_Everything_ is grey and drab, dark and ominous, and Brienne can’t help shivering a little as they check into a motel.

“It’s your imagination,” Jaime says as they walk to their room.  “The Dreadfort Killer has put a pall over everything to do with this place, that’s all.”

Brienne shivers again.  “Especially since he’s been quiet for too long.”

Jaime gives her a half-smile as he closes the door behind them.  “And you can’t wait to see what you can find out about him, can you?”

Brienne flushes a little then gives him a sheepish shrug.  “Can you?”

Jaime grins, and Brienne can’t help but laugh.

*/*/*/*/*

They start with canvasing the town to determine when and where Roose Bolton was last seen.  The residents are cautious and close-mouthed, and Jaime wonders if they’ve stepped into the beginning of a horror movie or if the oppressive atmosphere is, as he told Brienne, simply in their imagination, caused by the ever-growing number of dead bodies being found in the area, the majority of whom have not yet been identified.

They learn the Boltons tend to stay to themselves, and from the expressions on the faces of the people they talk to, everyone prefers it that way.

“The Boltons have controlled the Dreadfort for generations,” the woman at the diner tells them with a shrug.  “It’s just the way it is.  But that doesn’t mean they’re part of the town.”  She glances around the empty diner, then leans closer and lowers her voice anyway.  “We like it that way.  They’re _creepy_.  And their butler, or whatever the fuck he is, is downright disgusting.”

Jaime’s eyebrow shoots up.  “Disgusting how?”

“He _reeks_.”

*/*/*/*/*

They learn what the woman meant when they drive out to the Dreadfort Manor the next day.

The Manor is located behind high, thick walls that enclose both the crumbled remains of the castle and what seems to be a large swathe of forest surrounding the Manor.  The Manor itself is three storeys high, u-shaped, and looks innocuous enough.  They can hear dogs barking in the distance as they get out of their car and walk up the front steps.

The man who answers the door looks clean enough but the stench that emanates from him is enough to make them both rear back in reaction before they plaster polite smiles on their faces and ask to speak to Ramsay Bolton.

The man surveys them with cold eyes then a slow smile creeps across his face as he says, “Follow me.”

*/*/*/*/*

The butler shows them into a den, where they wait for ten minutes.  Ramsay Bolton walks in and pauses on the threshold, his startlingly pale eyes are almost lost in his fleshy face and colder than any ice Jaime has ever seen.

Jaime and Brienne rise to their feet and he stares from one to the other and back again in silence before his meaty lips spread into a glistening smile that sends shivers down Jaime’s spine.

“The Great Detective Jaime Lannister,” he says, his voice a low purr.  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jaime and Brienne exchange a glance, and Jaime suspects that, for once, Brienne doesn’t mind that the focus is on him.

“We’ve been hired by your stepmother to search for your father,” Jaime says, but even his practiced charm is showing the strain.

“My stepmother is a silly, hysterical woman,” Ramsay says as the door opens again, and his butler carries in a tray laden with a small coffee pot and cups.  The man puts the tray down then exchanges nods with Ramsay before he leaves the room, although his stench lingers long after he’s gone.

“My stepmother is a silly, hysterical woman,” Ramsay says again as he pours and hands them each a cup of coffee, “but my father seems fond enough of her...or mayhaps it’s her bank account that he finds so attractive.  Still, out of respect for my father, please.  Ask your questions.”

Jaime and Brienne run through their usual questions, the coffee cooling in front of them.

Ramsay’s pale eyes watch them as carefully as they’re watching him as he replies to their enquiries with vague responses and no details whatsoever.

“I never reported my sweet father missing because he has a history of disappearing for weeks at a time,” he finally says.  “My stepmother knows as well; I believe she just wants some attention.  Trust me:  Father will get in touch when he’s ready to come home.”

Jaime and Brienne exchange glances, then Brienne says, “Well, thank you for your time, Lord Bolton.  We’ll be back if—”

Ramsay snaps his fingers, and says, “My father does have places he prefers to go when he’s on these... _vacations_.  Wait here while I ask Reek to pull that list together for you.”

He’s gone before they can even nod.

Jaime and Brienne exchange puzzled looks.

“Reek?” Jaime murmurs.  “A sadly accurate real name or a sadistically cruel nickname?”

Brienne rolls her eyes and Jaime chuckles.

“Well, I hope he’s quick,” Jaime says.  “This place gives me the creeps, but I suppose any lead helps.”

He blinks, trying to clear the fogginess from his eyes as he tugs against his restraints.  For a moment, he’s blinded by sheer panic as he struggles, remembering the last time his arms were tied like this—the flash of an arakh, the agony, his screams.

His panic slowly eases and he realizes that no, he’s not in that stinking hole in Essos...although he _is_ in a stinking hole, he _is_ restrained, and his right hand is bare and cold without the gold hand covering it.  Come to think of it…his entire body is cold.

He frowns and groggily forces his eyes to remain open as he tries to lift his head.

“Ah,” a voice purrs just out of his line of sight, “finally awake.  I must admit, it took more gas than I expected to knock both you and your strapping companion unconscious.  Of course, that wouldn’t have been necessary if you would have just drank the fucking coffee.”

Fear slices through the mental fog even if Jaime still can’t quite connect with his body.  “Brienne?” he mumbles.

“The big bitch should be waking soon, too,” the speaker says and strolls into Jaime’s line of sight.  Ramsay Bolton, which isn’t a surprise, now that Jaime’s mind is starting to work again.

Jaime blinks heavy eyelids and says, “Where is she?”

Bolton shrugs.  “Somewhere in the forest.  Only Reek knows where, but he knows better than to tell me.”  His lips are glistening, his eyes glittering with unholy anticipation.  “After all, that would take all the fun out of the game, now wouldn’t it?”

*/*/*/*/*


	2. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Canon-compliant coarse language. Threats of rape.

***/*/*/*/***

Cold.  She’s cold.

Brienne blinks her eyes open and stares, uncomprehending, at the twigs and grass and rotting leaves that greet her.  She’s sprawled on her side, her head resting on her arm...and she’s naked, rocks and branches and grass scratching at her skin.

She sits up with a gasp and stares around.

Trees and short-growth, thick and unbroken.  A forest.

She groans and pulls up her knees so she can rest her head in her hands.

The last thing she remembers is...

She snaps her head up as she looks around wildly.

There’s no movement or sounds, although she has no doubt she’s being watched even now.

Plus she’s naked, and cold, and—she squints up at the darkening sky—about to get even colder.

She pushes herself to her feet where she sways, and stumbles, and sees a scrap of paper on the ground.  She steadies herself then cautiously crouches down to snatch it up.

She unfolds it with shaking hands and reads:

_The dogs will be released in twenty-four hours.  If you survive for three days after that, you will win your freedom.  You have my word._

Well, she thinks, her legs weak and shaking, terror crawling up her spine and squeezing her scalp, at least he’s not stupid enough to sign his name.

*/*/*/*/*

Jaime’s mind is racing as the last of the drugs leave his system.  He’s spreadeagled on an x-shaped cross.  Thankfully, he’s only tied to it, but all his clothes and his gold hand are gone, and the air is cool against his skin.  It somehow makes him feel even more vulnerable.  He carefully flexes the muscles in his wrists, but there’s no give in his restraints, even though he’s not tied tightly enough to lose feeling in his hands.  That worries him, but he keeps his face as expressionless as he can as he watches Ramsay.

“The game?” Jaime says.

“Your ugly companion has a twenty-four hour head start, then three days to evade us and the dogs.  If she survives, I’ll set her free.”

No you won’t, Jaime thinks, and says, “And me?”

Ramsay rakes Jaime with his eyes and shrugs.  “Well, you’re prettier than that big bitch, but she at least has a cunt.  Have to admit, I wasn’t certain when I first saw her.”

Jaime doesn’t want to ask but can’t help himself.  “What makes you so sure now?”

Ramsay’s grin is feral.  “Didn’t I mention?  We strip them naked before we send them out into the woods.  Makes it more of a challenge for them, doesn’t it?”

Jaime tries not to react as he watches his captor, but there must be something in his eyes because a smile splits Ramsay’s meaty face.

“Oh, don’t worry—we haven’t fucked her.  Yet.  Reek prefers them dead, and I want her in prime condition for the game, otherwise there’s no challenge, is there?  Not that women are much challenge, of course.  They’re notoriously easy prey, are they not, Great Detective Jaime Lannister?  Although we’ve never had one as manly as this...Brienne, did you call her?  I must remember it.”

“Why?”

“If she gives me good enough sport, I will name one of my dogs after her.  The largest, ugliest one out of the next litter, of course.  I do that, you know, name my dogs for those who entertain me enough.”

Jaime can’t quite stop the grimace of disgust that passes over his face.

Ramsay lifts an eyebrow.  “You disapprove of my little hobby, but how can you blame me?  The Dreadfort is boring and the winters are long.  We have to do something to entertain ourselves.”

“By hunting down defenseless women?”

“True, women are notoriously easy prey and I have been growing bored.  I’m hopeful that this Brienne will give us better sport then the last few we’ve hunted.  The game takes wit as well as brawn, however, and she appears as dimwitted as any of the other, much more beautiful women.  The gods have truly been stingy in their blessings when it comes to her, have they not?  Well, with her build, she should at least give the dogs a good run.”

Jaime’s stomach churns and it takes all his self-control not to lunge against his restraints to try and get his hands around the bastard’s throat.

Ramsay shrugs.  “I’m bound to be disappointed regardless.  She seems as thick as a castle wall, which means she won’t last long, and I have no wish to rape the bitch; dead or alive, she holds no attraction for me.  But Reek...well, Reek will fuck anything...so long as they’re dead.”

Jaime’s hands slowly close into fists.  “I’m going to take great pleasure in killing you,” he growls through gritted teeth.

Ramsay’s smile is mocking.

“You will take great pleasure in trying,” he says.  “You will no more succeed than any of the others before you.”

“Other men?” Jaime asks, his voice sharp.

Ramsay shrugs.  “We don’t usually keep them long, when there is one, but you...”  He gives Jaime a considering look that clears away the last of the drug in Jaime’s system as a chill runs through him.

“You, I think, have... _possibilities_.”

*/*/*/*/*


	3. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Canon-compliant coarse language. Mention of rape/threats of rape. Violence. Blood. Please look at the tags on this fic for more warnings. Nothing too graphic, I don’t think, but disturbing situations, concepts, and actions. **Please read responsibly.**

***/*/*/*/***

Brienne, to her everlasting shame, panics.

She’s naked and alone, as defenseless as any prey in the woods, and she knows she can’t trust anything her captors tell her, so she runs, crashing blindly through the forest.  The stones and fallen branches bruise and cut her feet, but she barely feels it.  Branches whip her shoulders and flanks, but they barely slow her down.  She runs until her legs quiver and she slows, stumbling, but it’s the last fallen tree she tries to leap that stops her.  She catches her shin on it and cries out in pain and fear as she sprawls face-first on to the forest floor.

_That_ she feels.

She lays there, her breath sobbing in her chest, and is glad for the pain, because it clears her mind.

“Fool,” she whispers viciously against the leaves and grass and forest debris beneath her cheek.  “Bloody, stupid, _fucking_ fool!”

She rolls onto her back and glares up at the tree-filled sky and catches her breath while she takes stock.

Her mad dash through the forest has left her feet cut and bruised; her leg that caught on the log is scraped and bleeding; she’s exhausted; she doesn’t know where she is, and night is falling.  She lifts her hand, clutched tightly closed and slowly forces it open to see once again the piece of paper they’d left for her.  At least she was smart enough not to lose the note, although whether she’ll be able to hold on to it over the next few days or hours is unlikely.  No pockets, she thinks, and bites back a sudden urge to laugh and scream at the sky.

She sits up and rubs a hand over her face, wiping away sweat and shoving her hair off her damp forehead.

“Fucking moron,” she whispers.  She’s using resources she doesn’t have:  sweat is water, and besides her wits, her body is all she has to keep herself alive.  She reads the note again and sneers, wondering how many of the women before her truly believed they would be freed after the third day.  Probably more than she wants to guess, she thinks as she staggers to her feet, because no one expects to be in this situation, or want to believe that it’s real.  If anything, they might have thought it was some new reality TV show, or some kind of sick prank, but not the game of a serial killer.

She has an advantage there, Brienne tells herself as she takes a good, long look at the forest surrounding her.  At least she knows exactly what’s happening, and that it is all far too real.

*/*/*/*/*

She builds a makeshift nest beneath the low-hanging boughs of a pine tree.  At least it’s spring, she thinks as she snaps off branches from other pine trees and piles them on the ground she intends to sleep on.  She gathers more to layer over her.  The needles prickle her skin, but she’ll be warmer when she sleeps, if she can sleep at all.

Her stomach grumbles and she presses a hand flat against it.  She’s thirsty, too, and cold, but she doesn’t dare light a fire, although she does, at least, know how to start one without a match or lighter.  She doesn’t know how many hours she has—if any at all—but she also doesn’t know where she is in relation to the Dreadfort Manor, and she doesn’t want to draw attention to herself if she can help it.

She scouts her location until she finds a tree that she thinks she can climb.  She does so, wincing and cursing softly as the bark scrapes at the tender flesh of her legs and her tender feet.  Still, it’s worth it when she gets as high as she can get, because looming far in the distance are the ruins of the castle crouched high on the cliff overlooking the river.  The Dreadfort Manor is hidden in the castle’s shadow, although whether she needs to cross the river to get to it is a guess at this point.  She makes note of the direction from her campsite then scowls at it, her heart twisting as the sun sinks below the horizon.

If she’s here and about to be hunted, then that means...

_Jaime._

*/*/*/*/*

She dozes fitfully, beneath and on top of the pine boughs, waking at every sound and every breath of wind through the branches that shelter her.  At some point in the night, however, she dreams.

She dreams of Jaime, the beautifully clean lines of his jaw and cheekbones, the breadth of his shoulders, how it feels when he kisses her, moves inside her.  She dreams of his teasing smile, his laugh, the gleam in his eyes that is teasing and wicked and amused and just... _him_.  She hears his voice, and sees the way he walks.  She sees the little frown line that wrinkles his forehead when they’re working a case, and the crinkles around his eyes when he gives her the smile he reserves just for her that never fails to turn her bones to liquid even if she knows she should remain cautious.  She dreams she’s in his arms, then he gives her that special smile, kisses her, and turns and walks away.

She watches him go, struck dumb with sudden panic, frozen in place, her feet nailed to the ground.  She wants to call him back, to keep him safe, and she wakes, with his name on her lips and moisture on her cheeks, and with a bone-deep conviction that he’s dead; that he was killed even before she was dumped in the forest to be hunted.  Ramsay and his henchman want to hunt women, after all; a man would simply be in the way.

She swipes her hands over her face, wiping her cheeks dry, a kernel of harsh resolve forming inside her.  First, she makes it out of this, she tells herself, then she mourns.

Brienne burrows deeper into her uncomfortable nest and closes her eyes, trying to relax even if she’s not going to truly sleep.  She falls into a doze and does not dream again.

*/*/*/*/*

Brienne wakes with the sun, empties her bladder and her bowels, using oak leaves to clean herself, and wiping her hands on the dew-filled grass.  She returns to her makeshift camp and takes stock of her situation, wracking her brain for every scrap of survival lore she’s ever heard or seen.

She doesn’t need survival lore to understand that water is her most pressing need.

She glances around at the leaves and grass glistening with morning dew.

It won’t be much, she thinks with a mental shrug, but it will have to be enough for now.

She uses a fresh-picked, good-sized oak leaf, and uses that leaf to carefully harvest as much dew as she can before tipping it into her thirsty mouth.  It leaves her craving more, and she hopes she’ll make it to the river or mayhaps find a small pond or _something_ before the end of the day.

Assuming she’s still alive by then.

She shuts down that train of thought, just like she resolutely refuses to let herself think about Jaime.  She continues harvesting what dew she can before the sun burns it away.  Once she’s finished with that, she turns her attention to her bare feet.  She won’t be able to get far like this, thanks both to her mad dash through the woods the day before and because the forest floor is not kind at the best of times to bare feet used to shoes and pavement.  She considers the trees and sees, mixed in with the evergreens and oaks, other kinds of trees that she can’t name.  She walks close to one, peering intently at the bark.

She vaguely remembers stories of the Wildlings using tree bark to make... _things_...and they would peel the bark from the trees to do so.  Brienne considers the tree and wonders if she can at least cobble together something that will protect her feet from the forest floor.

Assuming she can peel any bark off of it, of course.

*/*/*/*/*

It takes more time than she wanted to spend, but in the end, she uses a sharp rock to peel off some large enough pieces of bark that she then ties to her feet with twisted ropes made from a stringy vine-like plant she prays is not poison ivy.

Then again, she thinks with grim humor, she may not have to put up with the discomfort for long.

She suddenly has another urge to scream but she grits her teeth and glares at the sharp rock in her hand.  Then she blinks and looks more closely at the rock.

Not sharp enough, but it should still do some damage if she can land it in the right place.

She tosses it in her hand and nods before she heads in the direction of the castle ruins.

*/*/*/*/*

She’s hears the dogs long before she sees them.  By the time she hears them, she’s acquired a walking stick and has learned to walk well enough in her makeshift shoes to make relatively good progress even if she has to periodically stop to replace the vines holding the bark onto her feet.

But now the hounds are baying, and her blood runs cold.

She has the walking stick, but the dogs sound like they number in the dozens, and she’ll never be able to evade them, even if she had a place to run to, or beat them off with just the walking stick.  She looks around and tries desperately to remember everything she knows about hunting dogs, about ways to hide her scent or at least confuse the dogs enough to buy some time.

Still, her only goal besides survival is to get back to the Dreadfort Manor, to get to Jaime, even if all she can do is recover his body.  The thought sends a sharp stab of grief through her and she ruthlessly pushes it away.

The dogs bay again, and they’re closer but not yet an immediate danger to her.  She looks at the sharp rock still clutched in one hand, and the walking stick in the other.

Useless, she thinks, looking around.  She needs to run and then find a tree to climb.  Of course, if the hunters have guns, hiding in a tree won’t help.  She wishes she had something to make spears because she could throw them from a tree.  Although if she misses her throw or her spears aren’t sharp enough, she’ll have no way to make any others if she’s trapped in a tree.

Still.  A spear whizzing towards them from above might at least make the humans think twice.

She remembers all the bodies that have been discovered and wonders how many of the victims tried this very trick.

For a moment, she almost gives in again to mindless panic, but she beats it back with grim determination.

She will not be taken without a fight, she thinks, gritting her teeth and scowling, and she’ll make them sorry they _ever_ thought they could hunt Brienne Tarth.

*/*/*/*/*

Brienne keeps pressing forward, hearing the dogs baying first from one side of her and then the other.  She adjusts her direction on occasion but for the most part, she’s grimly determined to reach the Dreadfort Manor and hopes she’s still going in the same direction.  She keeps a close eye on the position of the sun, which side of the tree the moss is growing on, and she keeps an even closer ear on the position of the dogs.

As the hours pass she becomes more and more cynically certain they’re toying with her.  She hasn’t tried to hide her trail and while there is a river near the ruins of the old castle, she has yet to make it there.  They will find her, probably close to nightfall, and then...

She refuses to think on it.  Instead she focuses on setting a steady pace that doesn’t use more energy than needed, telling herself she isn’t hungry or thirsty, and goes over everything she knows about the Dreadfort Killer’s MO.

Which is pathetically sparse.

Women, yes, found nude in the forests of the Dreadfort area, but who those women are and how they died has been kept out of the press.  She remembers the cautious way the townsfolk talked to her and Jaime, and wonders if they all know or suspect the killer is living in the Dreadfort Manor.

She thinks of how she and Jaime were gassed into unconsciousness in the den.

_Killers_ , she thinks, because there is no way one of the Boltons would know about it and not the other.  As for their butler...she grimaces with distaste, and not just from the memory of the way the man stank.

It takes her a moment to realize the smell is not a memory and she freezes, her muscles quivering as she sniffs the air, and she fleetingly wonders if this is what the hounds on her trail look like when they’re seeking her scent.

She changes course slightly, trying to keep the stench of the man in the air while manoeuvring around him towards the Manor.  The wind is coming from her right and it’s not until the dogs bay, closer now and to her left, that she stops in her tracks.

She’s being herded, she thinks, and rage blossoms red behind her eyes.  She’s being herded, like a sheep or a cow, and they know _exactly_ where she is.  She wonders if they’ve been using two sets of dogs, one with each man, or if they have other ways of tracking her.  Mayhaps trail cams she’s been setting off without noticing.

She’s convinced of the idea as soon as it enters her mind.

“Cowards,” she whispers as she starts moving again.  “Cheaters.”

She climbs the next tree she can, and looks for the castle ruins to make sure she’s still moving in the right direction, and she’s comforted to see it does seem closer…or mayhaps it is nothing more than wishful thinking.  Not that it matters, she tells herself grimly.  She’ll be on the run and lose her sense of direction soon enough, and they’ll likely send her running in circles until she collapses or until they decide to end it.  Still, right now, at this moment, she knows she needs to keep heading northeast.

She shakes her head and drops down out of the tree.

Reek’s scent tickles her nostrils once again, and it, too is coming from the northeast.

She sets her jaw.

Reek is standing between her and where she wants to go, and she, unlike her pursuers, is no coward.

She tightens her grip on her walking stick and heads in his direction.

*/*/*/*/*

She finds the river just as the hounds’ baying takes on a different note, and they suddenly sound much closer than she expects.  She has yet to find Reek, but mayhaps he’s on the other side of the river and his stench is just that strong. She doesn’t have much time to think about it.

She slips the birch bark off her feet and plunges into the water.

The cold takes her breath and the current knocks her off her feet before she’s gone more than three steps.  She lets the water take her, and thinks she’s at least found the guide to get back to the Manor.  The ruined castle is upstream, on the banks of this very river, with the Manor hidden somewhere around it.

She finally clambers out on the opposite bank, shivering, teeth clattering.  But she scoops a mouthful of water into her mouth before she heads into the forest, hoping she’s managed to at least lose the dogs.

*/*/*/*/*

The day inches on.  As the hours pass, she never sees the hounds or the men, but she hears them or smells them and adjusts her course as much as she can while continuing to head in the direction of the Manor.  She plunges back into the river when the dogs seem to get too close, struggling against the current and hoping she’ll eventually get them off her trail.

Will they hunt her during the night, she wonders, or will they pause the chase once it’s dark?  She doesn’t know, and as the hounds sound the alert at what sounds like three feet behind her, she takes off running only to crash into not just Reek’s stench, but the man himself.  She sees the gleam of his eyes and the smile on his face just before she barrels into him, sending them both crashing to the ground.  The noise alerts the hounds and their baying turns joyous as they get rapidly closer.

Reek’s smell makes her eyes water, but she takes a petty pleasure in his surprise and pain, and the fact she’s obviously knocked the wind out of him.

They stare at each other in suspended silence, then he opens his mouth and she cold-cocks him.  She scrambles to her feet and takes two steps away then stops, looking around.

The hounds are getting closer, but they’re not there yet, and she’d be a fool not to take advantage of this opportunity while she can.

She quickly and efficiently strips the unconscious man, leaving him in nothing but his underwear—that she’s fervently thankful he’s wearing—and his socks.  She’s disappointed to discover he has no gun, but he does have a hunting knife on his belt.  She’s scrambling to her feet when he blinks his eyes open and sits up with a groan, then gapes at down at himself then up at her.

“Some game, huh?” she growls, and slams her walking fist into his temple, once again knocking him unconscious.

*/*/*/*/*

Brienne hopes the stench from Reek’s clothes will confuse the hounds, and it seems to work, because the barking, when it comes, always sounds to be the same distance away from her.  She runs and walks in the direction of the Dreadfort Manor, and climbs the occasional tree to get her bearings.  She finally stumbles on an oak tree large enough for her to rest in its branches and at least be out of reach of the dogs if they appear.  She uses Reek’s pants and shirt to make a makeshift pouch and uses his belt to tie it to her waist before she scrambles into the tree and hopes the men, if they find her, won’t just shoot her down.

She’s settled in the branches when the hounds come silently out of the forest and stop beneath her, sniffing intently around the base of the tree.  She freezes, and watches with a sick, sinking feeling as Ramsay strolls into sight.  She sits as quietly as she can, wishing she were a much smaller woman, while the dogs and Ramsay prowl beneath her.  Her grip tightens on the branches around her as she observes them.  Six hounds, she sees, snuffling at the ground, but Ramsay, like Reek, doesn’t seem to be armed with anything more than a knife…which doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a handgun hidden somewhere in his clothing.

Still, she’s surprised to see he’s not carrying a rifle, but then again, she doubts he wants the deaths to be at a distance.

She remembers the cold, pale glint of his eyes.

No, she thinks, he wants it to be up close and very, very _personal_.

There’s rustling and twigs snapping as Reek joins his employer—still only in his underwear, she sees, and stocking feet.  Even from this angle, Ramsay’s disgust with his employee is almost as palpable as Reek’s smell.

“Any sign?” Reek asks, and Brienne is pleased to see he’s limping and his face is bruised.

Ramsay turns his back to her tree and says, “None.  She’s given us the slip.  For now.”

Reek stares intently at his boss then nods.  Brienne doesn’t miss the quirk of his lips as he does so.

“Well, that’s not such a bad thing,” Ramsay says as he whistles for the hounds and saunters away.  “After all, who wants the game to be over this quickly?”

*/*/*/*/*

Brienne doesn’t know how long she sits in the tree, pondering Ramsay’s words and the situation she’s trapped in.  This is all horrifyingly familiar and she knows there’s a movie about this very situation, including hiding in a fucking tree.  But thinking about movies makes her think about Jaime, and she almost doubles over at the thought of him taken down by the two cowards who are on her trail.

She reminds herself that she doesn’t have time to think about—or grieve for—Jaime.  Ramsay and Reek knew she was in the tree; that was obvious.  They intend to play with her even more sadistically than any cat ever played with any mouse.  They knew where she was the entire day, even managing to get across the river and back on her trail without any hesitation.  That proves they have some way of keeping track of her other than just the dogs.  Trail cams of some kind on the trees?  Mayhaps drones with infrared sensors.  What she needs, she thinks, as she finally straightens cramped muscles and drops to the ground, what she really needs, is a _plan_.

*/*/*/*/*

She spends the last few hours of daylight making her way towards the Dreadfort Manor, although it’s slow going through the overgrown foliage.  She keeps a sharp eye out for trail cams, and finds several, that she then skirts around if she can.  She doubts it’s the only surveillance, but it gives her some minor, petty pleasure to know she’s at least avoiding _something_.  Her stomach rumbles but she manages to ease its ache with water from the fast-flowing river.  She’s resigned herself to having no food for the foreseeable future.  It’s spring; bushes are only beginning to bud, and she can’t remember enough of whatever forest lore she may have gleaned over the years to identify which berries would be safe to eat anyway.  She knows she should be boiling the water, too, but, well, desperate times call for desperate measures.

The light’s beginning to fade when she finds a deep hollow left by a giant tree that had died and been knocked over by the wind in a way that lifted its roots from the ground.

She inspects the hollow and the cocoon-like space beneath the exposed roots and nods.  It will do.  It’s deep enough to hide her from sight until someone’s almost on top of it.

She carefully inspects the trees surrounding it, and finds a trail cam pointed directly at it.

Of course, she thinks.  The cowards will have trekked over their playground so many times, they know where every possible hiding place may be.

She takes great pleasure in pounding the trail cam into scrap pieces with a heavy rock then prowls around again, inspecting every tree.  There doesn’t seem to be anything obvious.  She looks up at the sky and thinks a drone will likely only see her body heat through the foliage, but not exactly what she’s doing.

She smiles, grim and cold.

She may be wrong, and there may be a camera pointed right at her right now...not that it matters.  She has work to do before she sleeps.

*/*/*/*/*

She builds her nest within the roots much like she had the night before.  Once night falls, she kindles a small fire, then spends some time opening up Reek’s boots so she can wear them comfortably enough on her feet, that are slightly larger than his.  While not ideal, it’s still better than the tree bark slippers she made that morning and replaced when she could throughout the day.  Not that they—or rather the vine lashings she used to keep them on her feet—lasted long, but they were better than nothing.

Reek’s shirt and pants are too small for her to wear, so she re-ties them into pouches then loops the belt through them so she can carry them at her waist.  Now she can carry whatever useful items she may find:  sharp rocks, mayhaps, or something she can eat.  Reek’s hunting knife is in a sheath on her left hip.

She’s almost grateful none of his clothes fit, because the thought of anything that had been against his body touching her bare skin in any intimate way makes her want to retch even more than the lingering odor emanating from the material.

She wonders if Reek’s stench will confuse the hounds, then reluctantly decides they’re likely too well-trained to be thrown off for long, if at all.

Finally, she sharpens her walking stick into a vicious point that will give her a longer reach if she has an opportunity to use it.  Of course, that will only be an advantage if Reek and Ramsay don’t switch to guns for tomorrow’s hunt.

When she’s finished, she burrows into the moss and pines boughs she used to build her nest beneath the roots of the tree.  She’s a little warmer than the night before, thanks to the fire, but she’s still cold and the bedding scratches and catches at her bare skin. She closes her eyes and yearns for food and a bed and Jaime’s strong body beside her.  She quickly shuts down thoughts of Jaime because she has no time for grief.  She needs her rest, and she wants to be out and moving by first light, especially since they know exactly where she is at all times.  She suspects, however, that Ramsay and Reek will simply toy with her again tomorrow; they enjoy the game too much to end it quickly.

For a moment, she allows herself the luxury of despair.  Jaime’s dead and she will be, too, soon, if she can’t find a way to get out of this.

*/*/*/*/*

She dreams.

She walks through a sea of gray mist, down a corridor lined with statues.  The eyes of the statues seem to follow her as she passes until she realizes they’re not statues, but real people, men on one side, women on the other.  They’re tall, blonde, strong, and all remind her of what she sees when she looks in her mirror every day.  As she walks, she sees there’s something or someone waiting at the end of the corridor, obscured by a bright light.  For a moment, Brienne wonders if Ramsay and Reek have found her and she’s already dead, but the thought doesn’t make her afraid, only curious, and her pace does not falter.

As she gets closer, the figure resolves into that of a woman, tall and regal, clad in bright armor, a sword at her waist.  She has a beautiful face, blonde hair and kind eyes.  Brienne comes to a stop in front of her.  They stare at each other, then the woman says, “Brienne of Tarth.”

Brienne shakes her head.  “Brienne Tarth.”

The woman smiles and says, “You are of my blood.”  She nods at the corridor Brienne has just walked down.  “These are your ancestors and my descendants.  You are as much a warrior as any of us who were once clad in armor and carried steel on our hips.  Despair if you must, but never give up.”

“I’m not giving up.”

The woman considers her thoughtfully then nods.  “We both have a Jaime Lannister.”

“Both are dead.”

The woman’s smile only widens.  “I never gave up on my Jaime; don’t give up on yours.”

Brienne wakes with a jolt and a sharp gasp for air.  She blinks up at the dead tree roots above her and frowns.

Why on earth would she be dreaming of Queen Brienne I of Tarth?  A distant ancestor yes, the inspiration for naming her fictitious boss after the Queen’s devoted husband, true, but she has never dreamed of the woman before.  So little is known about her, other than the legends and songs that tell of her unsurpassed beauty and the love she shared with her husband, that there is really nothing to fuel such dreams.

Then she remembers the words the Queen spoke.  It’s her subconscious, of course, trying to tell her that, given what she now knows about Ramsay and Reek and the pleasure they take in toying with their prey, Jaime might still be alive, although she’s not certain if that thought gives her comfort or not.  She swallows, trying not to think of all the depravities their captors could be inflicting on Jaime, and for a moment, she feels a glow of hope that mayhaps he is, even now, somewhere else in this forest, trying to survive and find her.  Still, she cannot be blinded by either grief or hope.  Instead she tells herself there’s a possibility he’s still alive, and that’s what matters.

She closes her eyes at the thought, telling herself she needs to rest.  She’ll be on the run again as soon as the sun rises and she needs to stay alive long enough to find out for herself what’s happened to Jaime.

Something cold and hard, built from rage and glittering like the dragonglass of legend, forms in the centre of her chest.

She will find out what’s they’ve done to Jaime, she vows, and she will have her revenge.

*/*/*/*/*

The day dawns bright and cool and Brienne creeps out of her lair to empty her bladder and bowels then picks up her meagre belongings and leaves her nest behind.  She treks to the river for water then looks wistfully at the plants around her and thinks that if she gets out of this alive, she’s going on a survival training course, because she’s sure there are things here she could eat, if she only knew what they were.

As she follows the river towards the ruins of the Dreadfort castle, she thinks of grubs and insects, and wonders if she’s hungry enough to eat something like that.  She grimaces at the thought, then her stomach growls.

If she makes it through the day, she thinks, she may need to give it a try.

*/*/*/*/*

She makes steady progress, thanks to Reek’s modified boots on her feet, although it’s still slow going through patches of thick underbrush.  She uses her sharpened walking spear to help her through the rough terrain while avoiding those trail cams she sees.  She almost wonders why she bothers, because she’s sure she’s likely triggering others or being tracked by drone.

She lifts her head as the dogs begin to bay and speeds up her pace.  She expects Ramsay and Reek will be more serious today in their pursuit, although she suspects they’ll stop short of actually killing her.  She ponders the men as she pushes her way through the forest underbrush, barely feeling the scrapes and stings of the foliage against her naked body.

They like the thrill of the hunt, she thinks, only it’s not truly a hunt.  They always know where she is, or at least her last known location, thanks to the trail cams, and whether they’ll be successful is a foregone conclusion.  No, she thinks, as the hounds get closer and she speeds up her pace without breaking into a run, if what drove them was only the thrill of the hunt, she would have been dead yesterday.  What they want is her _fear_.  More than that:  they want her _terror_.  That is the drug that fuels them, the food they crave, like some monster of old that fed off the blood of its victims.

She hears the hounds as they catch her scent and set off in a frenzy.  She bursts into a run, scowling even as she does so, because despite her best efforts, they’re succeeding when it comes to terrifying her.  She may have a knife and a spear and shoes now, but she’s still naked and there are at least a half-dozen hunting hounds and two sadistic men on her trail.

She needs to even the odds.

*/*/*/*/*

She runs until she can’t run anymore.  Reek’s shoes don’t cover her entire foot and she’s limping by the time she slows to a walk, panting, her limbs shaking, her head spinning from exertion and lack of food.

But she doesn’t hear the dogs, and she hasn’t caught any whiff of Reek’s stench in the air...or mayhaps her nose has gone numb to it since she’s been carrying his clothes.  But as her breathing slows and steadies, she feels something strange happening inside her.  That cold rage she felt in the night, that is as hard as dragonglass and lodged in the centre of her chest, is back and getting bigger.  The dogs bay again, a little closer, but Brienne doesn’t run.  Instead, her dragonglass rage begins to _think_.

She plods on in the direction of the Dreadfort castle ruins and wonders how Reek and Ramsay transported her so far away from the Manor and how they’re getting to her current location so quickly.  There must be trails or roads _somewhere_ in these fucking woods, if she could only stumble across one of them.

She takes the time to smash another trail cam with her walking stick as she passes, and wishes it was Ramsay’s or Reek’s head instead.

She also would really love to know just how fucking large this forest is.  She’s been making steady progress, but the cliff with the castle’s ruins atop it never seems to be any closer than when she started.  It’s almost like she’s going in the wrong direction.

She stops and scowls at the thought.

Is that possible, she wonders, that she might have mistaken the location of the castle ruins?  She closes her eyes and tries to remember their drive into the compound:  the ruins of the castle on the banks of the river on a high cliff.  It was distinctive and she can recall nothing else that looked even remotely similar.  She _must_ be going in the right direction.

She sniffs as an all-too-familiar stench tickles her nostrils.  She opens her eyes and looks straight into Reek’s face.

She stands, eyes widening, then his hand flashes, and she almost dodges, but he lands a good blow against her temple, enough to make her see stars as she staggers back.  He follows it up with a punch to her stomach as he knocks her walking stick from her hand, and she doubles over gasping for air although she manages to twist away from his third blow.

Reek bellows for Ramsay, and she hears the dogs baying, and while she thought they might make the game last longer, the rage in Reek’s eyes tells her he can’t wait to make her pay for what she did to him the previous day.

They circle each other.

A shiver runs down her spine because there’s absolutely nothing human in his eyes.  Still, she’s no longer afraid, here, in this moment.  She’s found the monster, and he may be terrifying when hidden by the forest, but in reality, he’s nothing but a weak, pathetic little man.

“Run, bitch, run,” he growls, his teeth bared, his eyes glittering. 

“From _you_?” she sneers.

His eyes narrow at her tone and she sees uncertainty flit over his face before he roars his rage and flies at her.  She blocks each blow, and lands one of her own against his jaw, sending him staggering back.  He lands another glancing blow against her cheek and another, more solid one, to her midriff, but she pounds three powerful punches into his chest, sending him staggering back against a tree, his head snapping back and bouncing off the trunk.

He staggers, shaking his head, then steadies, his eyes half-crazed as he glares at her.

“I don’t care what Ramsay wants,” he growls, pulling a hunting knife from his belt and prowling towards her.

“No?” Brienne says, backing away as she arms herself with the knife she had taken from him the night before.  “What does Ramsay want?”

“He likes to fuck the live ones then kill them slow, but I owe you one.”

Brienne’s smile feels almost as feral as Reek’s, and even more insane.  “I owe you more than one,” she says.  “Come and get me, you pathetic piece of shit.”

Uncertainty flashes again across his face then he bellows and attacks with a slicing arc of the knife that leaves a long, thin cut down her left arm that has her crying out from the pain.  Even so, it’s more a scratch than anything, although blood oozes and drips down her arm.  Still, she knows she needs to end this as quickly as possible, or she’ll be dead long before the dogs—and Ramsay—arrive.

She dodges the next blow, her left hand clenching around his right wrist, the hand holding the knife.  She feels the thin bones crack beneath her fingers even as she punches his face with her right fist and hears his nose break with a satisfying crack as blood pours down his face.

He screams and she lets him stumbles back, but the pain seems to snap whatever small thread of self-control the man possesses.  He rushes her with the knife, sloppily, clumsily.

Brienne once again grabs his wrist, then steps aside and drives her knife into his stomach up to the hilt.  She stares into his eyes, his blood scalding hot against her hand.  His eyes widen and his jaw drops as a thin, high-pitched, whining scream comes from his throat.

He staggers away from her and she lets him go.  His knife drops from his hand as he weakly paws at the one protruding from his stomach.  He takes another step—two—three—then drops to his knees and falls to his side.

She feels nothing as she watches him, his blood hot against her hand.  She snatches up the knife he dropped as the dogs bay once more, then picks up her walking stick and once again sets off in the direction of the Dreadfort castle.

*/*/*/*/*

To her surprise, the dogs don’t chase after her.  As the hounds’ baying disappears and the day edges towards night, Brienne wonders if Ramsay actually called off the chase in order to get Reek help.

She somehow doubts it.

Still, she’s glad for the reprieve...or mayhaps, Ramsay has gone into silent hunting mode.

She shakes her head as she destroys another trail cam.

She’ll go insane—or mayhaps _more_ insane—if she tries to determine all the different games Ramsay might be playing.  She is certain, though, that she’s at least managed to even the odds when it comes to the number of men chasing her.  Even if Reek survives, she somehow doubts he’ll be in the forest tomorrow, tracking her down.

Now she needs to deal with Ramsay.

*/*/*/*/*

She almost falls over the edge of a short, sharp embankment that’s hidden from her sight until she’s almost upon it.  The drop isn’t enough to injure her, although it would have been extremely uncomfortable when she hit the bottom.

She frowns, an idea emerging from that cold, hard, dragonglass lump of rage in her chest.  She shies away from it, but she knows she has no choice.  Ramsay won’t allow her to escape tomorrow if he can help it.  She needs to find whatever trail he’s using to make his way through the forest so she can finally get to the Dreadfort Manor, and she needs to gain the upper hand on him to do so.

That means eliminating his best weapon he’s been using against her.

She thoughtfully eyes the drop again and ponders her idea.  It may not work, she thinks, but she has to try.

She proceeds to destroy every trail cam she can find in the area, then spends the last few hours of daylight carving spears, and building her trap,

*/*/*/*/*

Ramsay’s no longer toying with her, because the dogs’ baying wakes her, and she sees the sun has barely risen.

She grabs her packs and walking stick and begins working her way through the woods, towards the sound of the dogs.

She needs them close.  She needs the dogs on her heels, needs them to see her and not just smell her.  Needs them blinded by their lust to corner their quarry, and close enough that they cannot stop themselves once in full flight.

For a moment, she trembles, fear almost blinding her.  She needs to be faster than the dogs, and she hasn’t eaten in three, almost four, days, while being naked in the forest.  Her arm where Reek’s knife sliced her is throbbing, but the cut is both shallow and thin, and how she managed to achieve that is anybody’s guess.

But she _must_ be close to the Dreadfort Manor, and it’s the third day.  One way or the other, today will be the end of it.

*/*/*/*/*

The baying changes timbre, changes into what she now knows is the note that tells their master they’ve caught her scent.  Her biggest fear is that they will come upon her in such a way that blocks her path back to her trap.

She doesn’t know how far behind the dogs Ramsay will be, but she suspects he’s trained the hounds to tree his prey rather than outright kill them.  Ramsay can take no pleasure in the women’s deaths if he’s not there to take his pleasure in it.

She wavers beneath the guilt she feels over what she’s about to do, and wracks her brain, wondering if there’s another way.

The baying gets closer and it takes all her willpower to not let her primitive fear of the sound get the better of her.  That cold, dragonglass in the core of her straightens her spine.

She has no choice.  Not if she wants to survive, find out what happened to Jaime, and bring Ramsay to justice.

_Justice._

Her lips curl at the word because she knows, knows with every fibre of her being, with every cell, that if Jaime is dead, whatever sentence she imposes on Ramsay won’t be justice but cold-blooded vengeance.

Then there’s no more time for thinking:  she hears the dogs crashing through the underbrush, and she waits until they’re almost upon her before she runs.

*/*/*/*/*

In the end, it works better than she expected.  The dogs are not quite on her heels by the time she gets to that steep embankment she’s hidden from sight by stacking a couple of fallen trees, supplemented with branches, in front of it.  She jumps over the barrier and straight down beside it, huddling on the small ledge she allowed herself and watches as the dogs sail over her and into her trap.

She estimated the distance the dogs could leap almost exactly, and set the spears correctly, although the horror of it all is something that will live in her memory for the rest of her life.

She scrambles down the embankment and uses Reek’s knife to make short work of those not killed instantly by the spears, saying a quick prayer to the Stranger for every single one of those innocent souls, who were only doing what they’d been trained to do.

Her gruesome work done, she scrambles back up the embankment to hide beneath the pine tree she prepared for that purpose, and waits.

Ramsay’s smug look is replaced with one of concern as he strolls into sight.  He’s carrying a shotgun now, she sees, and stays as quiet as she can, watching.

He peers over the fallen trees and stills.  He simply stands and stares for a long moment then lifts his chin and roars his rage at the sky.

“You’re going to die slow, you fucking bitch!” he screams, spinning around.  “I will take a pound of your living flesh for every one of those hounds!”

Oh? Brienne thinks, not moving as she watches and listens.  And how are you going to find me, now that I’ve evened the odds?

He roars again then turns and hurries away, crashing through the underbrush.

Brienne slips out from her hiding place, and follows.

*/*/*/*/*

She takes almost sadistic pleasure whenever she makes some small noise that causes Ramsay to spin around, peering suspiciously at the foliage, his rifle at his shoulder, ready to be fired at the least sign of movement.  Each time, when he continues his journey, he’s moving a little faster until he’s almost running.

Finally, he steps into clearing, where there’s an ATV waiting with a well-worn trail behind it.  He clambers onto the ATV, his rifle balanced on his lap, and roars away.

Brienne smiles.

*/*/*/*/*

Brienne follows the trail, staying hidden in the trees as much as possible in case he decides to come back.  Although with the destroyed trail cams she’s leaving in her wake, she’s sure he knows she’s on her way.

She presses on.

*/*/*/*/*

The Dreadfort Manor appears suddenly:  a turn in the trail and there it is.  She prowls around it, staying within the treeline, and waits for night to fall.

*/*/*/*/*


	4. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Canon-compliant coarse language. Violence, threats of violence, and blood. Nothing too graphic, though, I don’t think, but we are talking about Ramsay and Reek, so things are going to be creepy.

***/*/*/*/***

_Four days earlier..._

Jaime wonders how his body can be both numb and in such agony at the same time.  It’s almost a relief when Reek arrives, carrying a glass of what looks like water.  Jaime watches him, wary but helpless to stop Reek from doing whatever it is he wants to do.  Reek simply forces his jaws open then pours the water down his throat and steps away.  He watches with a smile as Jaime chokes and coughs and almost retches from the stench that emanates from the other man.

“What the fuck—?” Jaime finally sputters.

Reek doesn’t bother to respond, and instead just stands, watching and waiting, a thin smile curving his lips.  A sharp spurt of terror stabs through Jaime’s stomach as he wonders if the water was poisoned or merely drugged.

He stares at Reek, not speaking, trying to keep his face expressionless as he waits for whatever was in the water to take effect.

Reek’s smile widens even as Jaime’s eyes begin to droop.

Jaime’s last thought before darkness descends is the sincere hope that Reek’s face is not going to be the last thing he sees.

*/*/*/*/*

When Jaime wakes, he’s no longer tied to the x-shaped cross.  He blinks blearily at the ceiling and scowls.  He tries to rub his eyes but is brought up short by a chain tethering his wrist to what his muddled mind finally determines is an iron headboard.

He falls back into unconsciousness but the next time he wakes, his mind is clearer although it still takes him longer than he likes to eventually understand he’s on a bare mattress on a narrow, cot-like bed, his hands manacled to the spindles of what appears to be an iron headboard.  He’s still naked, and although he’s also still chained, he can at least re-position himself enough to somewhat ease his discomfort, and the bed is narrow enough that the pressure on his shoulders is not as pronounced as before.  All-in-all, he’s surprisingly comfortable, given his circumstances.

At least for now.

In an instant, he’s back in another room, in another time, when he was restrained in a very similar way.  There’s a flash of light on steel as the arakh falls, agonizing pain, the echo of screams...

His eyes slam shut and he grits his teeth as he rides out the memories.  Finally, he blinks up at the blank ceiling above him and reminds himself he has no time for this:  there’s no Tyrion galloping to his rescue, and Brienne is in her own world of hurt and needs him to do everything he can to help her.

He squeezes his eyes closed again at the thought of Brienne, alone in the forest with two madmen on her trail, then he opens them, his face set with grim determination.

He carefully tests the limits of his chains and his resulting mobility, and manages to push himself up enough to sit up against the headboard, the iron cold against his bare back.  He can, he finds, even swing his bottom half off the bed, albeit at an awkward angle.  If they don’t release him, he at least has more options than pissing the bed when it comes time to empty his bladder.  What he’ll do when it’s time to take a shit, well...he’ll figure that out, too.  He grimaces at the thought of wallowing in his own filth, but he has no doubt Ramsay and his lackey will enjoy it immensely.  Not that it matters.

Besides.

It won’t be the first time.

Jaime can’t quite get his hands to meet, but the cuffs around his wrists are surprisingly loose instead of being clamped tight against his skin.  It gives him some freedom of movement although the cuffs aren’t so loose he can slip his hands free...at least, not without breaking some bones to do it.

He shudders at the thought, and tucks it away as the last possible resort.  There’s nothing to be gained by breaking his hands if his path to freedom is blocked by locked doors that he can no longer open.

He carefully surveys the room, looking for the places where there may be hidden cameras or microphones.  The room is completely bare with no other furnishings except a large mirror on the wall across from him.  Jaime cocks his head as he considers it.  He has no doubt that behind it lurks a hidden space from which Ramsay and Reek can watch their prisoners and revel in their pain and terror.

Jaime lets his eyes drift over the rest of the room:  bare linoleum, a door, an obvious camera in the corner above the door, pointing at the bed.  Jaime raises an eyebrow at it, thinking it’s too obvious.  It’s either not truly operational or put there as a sign to the prisoner inside that there is no escape.

Or mayhaps he’s begun to second-guess everything...then he remembers the den and being gassed, and decides he’s probably not being nearly paranoid enough.

*/*/*/*/*

He dozes and when he wakes again, he feels like the last of the drugs he’s been fed is out of his system.  He has no idea how much time has passed, or whether it’s day or night, and that worries him.  He doesn’t know how long Brienne has been on the run in the forest and the longer it takes him to get free, the longer it will be before he can find a way to help her.

His bladder is aching and Jaime reluctantly manoeuvres himself so his cock is, as much as possible, angled off and away from the bed before releasing his bladder.  He grimaces at the stench, and stays half-off the bed until the last of the moisture has dried on his body.  As he waits, he thinks about his situation.  It’s good that the bed is narrow enough and his chains are long enough that he can swing his bottom half-off the bed when necessary, but that only raises his suspicions.

Ramsay does not strike him as a man concerned with the comfort of his prisoners.

Ramsay has something else in mind for him, Jaime thinks, his mouth set in grim lines.  He just doesn’t know what it is.

*/*/*/*/*

Jaime keeps his eyes on the mirror in front of him as he discreetly tests the sturdiness of the bed frame under the guise of stretching to ease the aches and pains caused by his restraints.  There’s no give at the joints at all.

He examines the spindles his chains are locked around and sees they’re welded to the headboard instead of being screwed in.  He tests them anyway, to see if there are any weaknesses, but they don’t budge.

He considers the chains that are wrapped tight around the spindles and held in place by a heavy lock, with more chain hanging down to the floor.  He cranes his neck to look at the length of extra chains, and tugs at them, but there’s no give there, either.  Chained to the floor, mayhaps, or just to the bed frame—not that it matters.  Either way, he can’t pull it up to use as a weapon against his captors.

Jaime continues testing his boundaries.  He can grasp the headboard and use that to lift himself up to lean against the headboard but his hands can’t quite reach the mattress.  While the bed is narrow, his hands also can’t quite reach each other.  His shoulders alternate between numbness and burning pain caused by his restraints.  He periodically shifts his position, taking whatever relief he can.

He looks at the mirror again then at the obvious camera in the corner, but who, exactly, is observing him and when are the real questions.

He doesn’t waste his energy calling for help.

*/*/*/*/*

Jaime tries to remain as relaxed as possible as he considers his options.  He finds he can slightly move the bed if he puts one foot on the floor and pushes hard.  He doesn’t yet know how that might be helpful since even if he manages to get to the door, he’s still chained to the fucking thing.

Still, the longer he’s left alone, the more likely it is he’ll come up with _some_ idea to get himself out of this.  He has to, he thinks grimly, because Brienne is on the run out in that forest, and needs all the help she can get.  He has a momentary flash of panic that she’s already been caught, that Ramsay is, even now—

He grits his teeth and forces those images out of his head, his hands tightening around the headboard.

No, he firmly tells himself, she’s still alive, still free, because she’s brighter than Ramsay can ever imagine.  She’s strong and resourceful, and she’ll be able to take Ramsay and Reek in a fair fight.

Jaime’s gaze drifts to the mirror then to the camera.

Of course, it not as if they have any interest in playing fair.

*/*/*/*/*

He doesn’t know how long he’s alone in the room.  Long enough for him to run through his options at least a dozen times, then doze, then piss again, then return to running through his options.  He tries to remember what a mattress is made from, and wriggles around, trying to determine if this one has any springs that he might be able to use if he can just get to them.  His ass is very sensitive, he thinks wryly, like some princess from the Age of Magic, and has a sudden urge to laugh until he screams.

He tests how far he can pull his right hand through the manacle, but no matter how he tries to position it, he would be breaking at least his thumb in order to get free.  He doesn’t have enough mobility in his right hand to be able to afford to lose the use of his thumb.  He considers breaking his left hand instead, but doesn’t know if he could still pick the lock on the last manacle without his thumb to control whatever he might use to pick it.

Assuming he can find something to use as a pick.

He could break both hands and take the risk that the door to his room is unlocked...but while Ramsay and Reek don’t seem like geniuses, they’re certainly clever enough to pipe gas into a room, and they’ve been clever enough to not yet be caught while playing their game.  They might also be clever enough to keep the door to his prison locked.

Jaime shifts his position on the bed and frowns at his reflection in the mirror.

It doesn’t seem like Ramsay is in any hurry to murder him outright, or mayhaps he and Reek want him awake and screaming while they do so.  He remembers Ramsay telling him that he had ‘possibilities’, and tries not to shudder.

*/*/*/*/*

He doesn’t know how many hours pass but he’s dozing again when he’s startled awake by the unlatching of the door.  Ramsay walks in, followed by Reek, carrying a tray of food and water, his face bruised and swollen, harsh anger roiling in his eyes.

Jaime’s stomach growls but his expression doesn’t change as he watches them.  Reek puts the tray down on the floor by the wall near the door, then joins Ramsay as they saunter towards him.  Jaime wrinkles his nose as Reek’s stench reaches him.  He thinks he prefers the smell of his own piss to whatever the fuck is wrong with Reek.  He wonders if he’s even going to prefer the smell of his own shit.

 

Ramsay stops beside the bed, almost daintily stepping around the pool of urine beside the bed.  He stares down at Jaime and his unusually pale eyes glitter with something that Jaime can’t decipher.  He suddenly wishes he could lower his hands to hide his genitals from sight.

“Clean up the mess he’s made on the floor, Reek, and bring him a bucket to use for his waste.”

“Doesn’t help if I can’t put myself over it,” Jaime says.  He nods at the tray of food and water.  “And that doesn’t help if I can’t feed myself.  Or are you going to feed me like a handmaid of old?”

Ramsay’s eyes seem to bore into his skull.

“Give him a few more links on his chains,” he says.

Reek nods and steps closer.  Jaime’s nose wrinkles at his stench but the man’s fist is as strong as any other against his temple and jaw, although it takes Reek three blows before he believes Jaime is stunned enough to not resist while he adjusts the length of the chains on Jaime’s manacled wrists.

Jaime rides out the pain, although he winces again as first one then the other of his numbed arms fall to his sides.  Reek gives him a toothy smile then gives him one last backhand, splitting his lip.  Jaime grimaces both from the pain of it and from the coppery taste of his own blood.

He watches Reek leave the room, hopefully for a mop and a bucket then turns his gaze to Ramsay.

Ramsay’s eyes are avidly intent on Jaime’s face, watching for every nuance in his expression as he says, “It was the first full day of the game.”

Jaime’s heart lifts a little to realize he hasn’t lost as much time as he feared.  He touches his hand to his split lip as he licks at the blood and raises an eyebrow.

“Was it?” is all he says.

Ramsay’s eyes never waver as he says, “That giant sow you brought with you wasn’t as good as I’d hoped, and I expected very little from her.”

Ramsay’s thick lips twist and turn into what might be a smile as Jaime’s hands clench into fists.

“You’ve caught her already?” Jaime says, forcing himself to relax.

Ramsay shrugs.  “No, but only because I let her go.  You are obviously the brains of your agency since she made little effort to elude or confuse the dogs.”  He turns to watch as Reek returns, carrying the hoped-for mop and bucket.  Ramsay’s face is cruelly amused as he watches his companion.  “Still,” he murmurs, “she’s almost amusing.  She knocked Reek unconscious and stole all his clothes.  For some reason, however, she left him in his underwear.”

It takes all Jaime’s self-control not to laugh at the resentful glare Reek shoots his companion, then Jaime looks again and sees the half-mad rage in the man’s eyes, and all his amusement disappears in an instant.  He sends a quick prayer to the Father to keep Brienne safe, even as he keeps his own face and eyes as blank as possible.

“I have no idea why she would be so loathe to see your naked body, Reek,” Jaime murmurs.

Reek glares and advances, the mop gripped in his hand.  Jaime braces himself, but Ramsay stops Reek with a sharp word.

“You’ll have your chance soon enough,” Ramsay snaps.  For a moment, Jaime’s not certain if Reek is going to obey his companion’s order or not, but he finally relaxes and sets to the task of cleaning the floor.

Jaime keeps a wary eye on him as he says to Ramsay, “You’ve come bearing more drugged gifts for me?”

Ramsay turns to look at the tray of food and water then turns back with a smirk.  “No drugs.”

Jaime raises an eyebrow.  “To what do I owe such kind treatment?”

“I want you to keep your strength and your wits about you,” Ramsay says.  “I let that stupid bitch go today because she amused me, but she was pathetically easy to track.  Still, the dogs got some exercise at least, and the sight of Reek wandering through the forest in nothing but his underwear is something I will remember for a long time.  I’ll likely put an end to it tomorrow, though.  Since she amused me, I’m willing to grant her a quick death once I’m finished with her, but what Reek will do to her in payment for his humiliation is up to him.  Be that as it may, once he’s finished, it will be your turn.”

Jaime’s eyes widen.  “My turn?”

“You may not have a cunt, but at least you’re pretty.”

*/*/*/*/*

Ramsay leaves them and Jaime silently watches as Reek finishes cleaning up Jaime’s piss, then leaves the empty bucket near the bed.  Reek makes a point of leaving the food and water out of reach, and his smile is sly as he closes the door behind him.

*/*/*/*/*

Jaime finds he can stand, no matter how awkwardly, and he thanks the Seven again for the narrow bed.  He can’t quite stand up straight, but he’s at least on his feet, and the extra length on his chains not only allows him to rest his hands and arms on the mattress, it also allows him to bring his hands together.

_Perfect._

*/*/*/*/*

He settles back on the bed and meets his own eyes in the mirror.  He wonders if Ramsay and Reek are watching him through the glass, waiting to pounce if he shows even the slightest hint that he’s trying to free himself.  He looks up at the camera above the door.  He wonders if they have the footage feeding to their phones, so they can keep an eye on him even when they’re not physically nearby.

He wonders if it’s day or night.

He tries not to wonder what Brienne is doing right now, because the thought of her alone in the forest as night falls makes his heart clench and makes him want to wrap his chains around Ramsay’s and Reek’s necks and _pull._

If they succeed in killing her...

He pushes that thought away.  She’s stronger and better than Ramsay believes; smart and resourceful, strong and clever.  Brienne will not be the easy prey Ramsay is expecting, and Jaime refuses to allow himself a moment of doubt about her fate.  She _will_ survive.

Because if she doesn’t…

He continues staring at his reflection in the mirror:  naked and chained to a bed, bruised and battered and looking as helpless a newborn babe.  A knot of rage forms in the centre of his chest, and an icy calm descends over him.  It’s the same icy calm he learned to feel whenever he was on a job for Tywin.

If, through some fluke, Brienne falls to Ramsay and Reek’s games, well…

The gods themselves will not be able to protect them.

*/*/*/*/*

Jaime silently counts in his head until he thinks a couple of hours have gone by.  There’s no guarantee they’re not still watching or recording him, but he needs to get working if he’s going to get out of here before Brienne breaks down the door and rescues him.

He smiles at the thought as he clambers to his feet then awkwardly manoeuvres the bed towards the tray of food and water.  Under other circumstances, being the damsel in distress to Brienne’s rescuing hero would be intriguing...unfortunately, it will take Jaime a long time before he’ll be willing to participate in that particular role play.

Then again, so long as he’s not _actually_ restrained...

He shakes head at his thoughts and thinks he needs to get out of this room before he goes truly mad.

*/*/*/*/*

Jaime’s stomach rumbles as he carefully inspects the tray of food and water.  He can’t quite reach it with his hands and Jaime wonders if that was accidental or if this is just a petty torture that amuses his captors.

He contemplates the plate of congealing food that probably wasn’t appetizing even when first made.  The glass of water is more tempting, but he still remembers choking on the water Reek forced on him decades ago...or mayhaps only a day or two.  Still, he wouldn’t eat or drink any of it, even if he could reach it.  He knows better than to trust whatever assurances Ramsay might make.

What interests him the most, however, are the utensils—or, rather, the lack of them.  There’s only a flimsy looking plastic spoon and, after some trial and error, Jaime manages to pick it up with his toes and drop it on the bare mattress of the bed, then uses his foot to slide it close enough to grasp it in his hand.

It’s a small triumph that immediately turns to ash, because the spoon is as flimsy as it looks.

Still, he thinks as he moves the bed back towards his waste bucket, mayhaps it’s not a complete loss.

*/*/*/*/*

He turns the spoon over and over in his hands with a thoughtful air as he stares at his reflection in the mirror.  Watching him even now, he wonders, or is it night?  Even murderous psychopaths need to sleep sometimes.  He debates moving the bed so one side is hidden from the mirror but decides against it.

He glances at the camera in the corner.

No matter if he tries to hide his actions or no, they’ll discover it when they look at the footage, and if they don’t look at the footage, they’ll only be suspicious if he moves the bed in a way that broadcasts he’s trying to hide something.

He snaps the spoon and tests the edge with his thumb.  Not as sharp as he hoped but still, better than nothing.  He clambers to his feet and begins to saw at the mattress.  It’s slow going but he’s made some progress by the time his eyes begin to droop.  He flips the mattress, then leaves the spoon beside him as he falls into a fitful sleep.

*/*/*/*/*

He dreams of Brienne, running through the forest, vulnerable and afraid, hounds close on her heels.  He wakes with a gasp as the dogs leap on her back and bear her to the forest floor.

He glares up at the ceiling and waits for his breathing to calm.

If she’s dies, he thinks allowing himself a moment of despair, if they succeed in killing her...

The thought creates something cold and hard and unyielding inside him, something that crystallizes around his heart and in the very core of him.

He will show them no mercy, he vows, and will feel no regrets.

*/*/*/*/*

He has no sense of how much time has passed when he wakes, only that he needs to use the waste bucket, which he does, precariously balancing over it.  He grimaces at the stench and wishes he had something he could use to clean himself.  He’s finally back on the bed, absently twirling the broken pieces of the spoon between his fingers, when the door opens and Ramsay and Reek walk in.  They don’t have food and water this time, but Reek picks up the tray from the floor and carries it to the bed.  Jaime eyes them warily as they approach and Reek puts the tray over Jaime’s knees.

Ramsay flicks his cold, pale eyes to the uneaten food then to the broken spoon in Jaime’s hands, and says, “You should eat.  When you’re on the run in the forest, you’ll regret not keeping your strength about you when you had the chance.”

Jaime stares at him.  “Do you truly think you’re going to be able to murder us and get away with it?”

“Why not?  I’ve gotten away with everything else.  Besides, if you must blame anyone, blame my stepmother.  If the stupid bitch hadn’t sent you here, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“She wants to know what happened to her husband.”

“She knows exactly what happened to him.  She just wanted you to bring me down for her.”

Jaime raises an eyebrow.  “Does she know what you and Reek are doing here?”

“She lived in this Manor.  What do you think?”

Jaime’s stomach churns at the thought.  “Did you threaten her, too?  Did that keep her in line?”

Ramsay shrugs.  “You act as if my father was some innocent in all of this.  Who do you think built this place with all its secrets?”

Jaime tilts his head to one side.  “So you didn’t murder him because he discovered your little... _game_?”

Ramsay’s smile is cold.  “Of course not.  He enjoyed the game as much as I did.  No, I killed him because he wanted me to slow the game down.  He said I was attracting too much attention and if I wanted to be able to continue, I would need to be more discreet.”  He gives a sad shake of his head.  “He never did like taking risks.”

“Why did you kidnap us, of all people?  We’re not some nameless runaways who can disappear without a trace.  You must know people are already looking for us.”  Jaime has a sudden, horrifying image of Bronna and Sam and Tyrion, arriving on the Manor’s doorstep and falling into the hands of these madmen.

Ramsay doesn’t seem to notice his distraction.  “This…Brienne, correct?  She’s the largest woman I’ve ever seen.  I was hoping she would be more of a challenge, but she has, so far, disappointed me...except for what she did to Reek.”

Ramsay’s slides a sly look in Reek’s direction.  The bruises on Reek’s face have come out during the night, and he looks just as angry now as he had however many hours earlier.

Ramsay says, “For that, at least, I shall kill her quickly.”

“Yes, yes, so you’ve said,” Jaime drawls.  “And as for me?”

“If you remember what I said about that big bitch, then you should also remember what I’ve said about you—”

Jaime airily waves Ramsay’s words away…or as airily as he can while shackled.  Ramsay’s eyes narrow as Jaime says, “I’m not talking about your game.  I’ve seen the movie; I know what you intend to do.  I’m curious why you haven’t just murdered me outright.  As far as I know, no men have been numbered among your victims—well, other than your sweet father, I suppose.  Am I the first man you’ve captured along with the woman?”

“You are not the first man, and you’re right:  I don’t usually keep them alive this long.  But you are the Great Detective Jaime Lannister; your reputation precedes you.  Just as I thought Brienne would pose a challenge of one sort, mayhaps you will pose a challenge of another.  Women are notoriously stupid and easily panicked; you, however, may be made of sterner stuff, and mayhaps slightly more intelligent.  Mayhaps that cleverness will present a worthy challenge, add some flavour to the game.  If that’s the case, I may add more men in the future.”

Ramsay turns and strolls towards the door, Reek on his heels.  Ramsay pauses and turns to look back at him.  “You really should eat.  Keep up your strength.  You’ll need it once you’re in the forest.”

*/*/*/*/*

Jaime starts counting once the door closes on his captors’ backs.  He continues counting as he carefully moves the tray of food off his legs and perches it beside him on the narrow bed.  He taps his fingers against his thigh as he gives Ramsay and Reek enough time to—he hopes—actually leave the Manor.

As he waits, he carefully doesn’t allow the thought that Brienne may be dead by the time they return to stay long in his mind.  He refuses to believe she will be defeated by such worms as Ramsay and Reek...in a fair fight that obstinate voice in his head whispers, and this is far from a fair fight.  At least he doesn’t think the men will be using guns to bring her down.  Jaime suspects that Ramsay wants to stare into his victims’ eyes, to feel the thrill of knowing he’s the one who is terrorizing them before they die.  He’s a sadistic son-of-a-bitch, and Jaime’s still amazed the man hasn’t been torturing him.  From the look in Ramsay’s eyes, though, Jaime knows it’s only a matter of time.

He sees the flash of an arakh as it descends, the agony as it hits its mark, and Jaime shudders, closing his eyes tight.  After a moment, he opens them and blinks at his reflection.

Ramsay will do even worse, he thinks, if such a thing is possible.

Jaime continues counting until he reaches what he believes is one hour since he’s been left alone and then he slides out of bed.

Time to get to work.

*/*/*/*/*

First, he empties the water into his waste bucket then breaks the glass it was with a quick, sharp snap against the iron headboard.  He considers the sharp edge with an assessing eye and nods.

That will do, he thinks, then proceeds to throw the tray of food off the bed as he flips the mattress, then uses the broken glass to finish what he had begun with the spoon.  He’s gambling everything on the idea there are springs in this mattress, and more importantly, springs that are thin enough to pick a lock.

He cuts and digs his way into the mattress and thanks the old gods and the new when his hand closes round what is obviously a coiled spring of steel.

A _closed_ spring of steel.

Jaime straightens, scowling at down at the mattress.  Of course, it makes sense.  A mattress isn’t comfortable because its interior is filled with pointy bits.  He tugs at the spring and finds it’s attached to the wiring threaded through the interior of the mattress.  He tries bending the spring and is pleased to find it has some give.  If he can break off a long enough piece of it...

He bends the spring back and forth, rhythmically, methodically, and counts as he does so.

He doesn’t know how long he has before Ramsay and Reek return, and if they tell him Brienne is dead...

He swallows down his fear and rage and continues working.

*/*/*/*/*

Jaime has no sense of the passage of time, only his steady, slow counting as he works on the spring, but even so, time seems to stretch endlessly since Ramsay and Reek’s last visit.  He pauses to rest periodically and as the hours pass, he finds himself thinking they should have returned or caught him by now.

But they don’t return and Jaime works until his body tells him it’s time to sleep.

*/*/*/*/*

He dreams he’s holding Brienne in his arms, keeping her safe.

*/*/*/*/*

He has no idea how much time has passed by the time he wakes again.  There’s still no Ramsay or Reek, and he finds himself wishing he had chanced the water and food his captors had left him.  He’s hungry and thirsty and getting thirstier.  If they decide to bring him food and water again, he will have to chance it being drugged.  Hopefully if he takes only a sip or a bite every now and then, whatever might be in there won’t affect him.  They don’t want him to die from an overdose, after all; there’s no amusement in that.

He climbs out of bed and starts working again on breaking off the spring in the mattress.  He’s making progress but not as quickly as he would like and he doesn’t know if he should be impressed by the quality of the mattress or curse his captors for not using a cheap mattress for their prisoners.

Still, the spring is starting to give, and he redoubles his efforts.

He doesn’t know what makes him pause—some faint thump or footstep or muffled movement outside the door.  He doesn’t try to understand it, he just scrambles back on the bed, hiding the gaping hole in the mattress beneath his back.  He’s in place just in time as the door opens and Ramsay steps in, his eyes cold and Jaime blinks at the rage blazing from the other man’s eyes.

Still, as Ramsay stops beside the bed and glares at him, Jaime sees that beneath the rage is a calculating thoughtfulness.

Jaime looks at him and waits, biting down on the urge to beg Ramsay to tell him about Brienne.  If he doesn’t ask, he thinks, fear tearing at his throat, then there’s no way Brienne could possibly be dead.

“She killed Reek,” Ramsay says.

Jaime’s eyes widen.

“That bitch you work with murdered him!”

Now Jaime raises an eyebrow.  “Did she stalk him through a forest?”

“She stabbed in the stomach and left him to die.”

“Forgive me if I don’t give a shit.”

Ramsay backhands him, re-splitting his lip, and he coughs as blood spurts into his mouth.

“Reek has been with me my entire life, boy and man.  I will not allow that fucking, _stupid_ cunt to get away with this!”

“And you’re telling me this...why?  Are you expecting sympathy?  Are you expecting me to agree with you?  Tell you you’re justified in hunting down my colleague and murdering her in cold blood?”  Jaime sneers.  “Are you feeling hard done by?”

Ramsay backhands him again, and for a moment, Jaime sees stars.  He wishes he’d been able to free himself before the fucker returned, because now he’s not certain he’s going to survive whatever Ramsay is planning.

Ramsay looms over him, his teeth bared in a feral grin.

“I am going to make her suffer,” he hisses.  “I may even let the dogs take their pound of flesh before I take mine.  But no one— _no one_ —takes what’s mine.”

Ramsay lifts his hand again, and Jaime lashes out, aiming for Ramsay’s genitals but hitting his manacled wrist in the stomach instead.  Still, the blow is strong enough to send Ramsay reeling backwards with a grunt.  Jaime pulls himself up in the bed and glares.

“Do you really want to try that again, little man?” Jaime growls.

Ramsay’s face turns a deep, mottled red.  “That stupid cunt in the forest will be dead by the time I’m done today,” he growls, “and then I’m going to deal with you.”

He spins around and leaves him alone.

*/*/*/*/*

Jaime silently counts in his head until he feels that at least a half hour has passed.  Then he gets off the mattress and continues working on breaking off the spring with a tinge of desperation.  He continues counting and he counts another half-hour before the first end of the spring finally breaks.  Breaking off the second end takes another few minutes but finally the length of spring is free and in his hand.

He pulls it out and smiles.

It’s a matter of a few minutes more before he’s free of his manacles, his right hand not quite as skilled as it used to be.  He rubs his wrists as he prowls to the mirror where he confirms it’s definitely two-way.  Given no one has rushed into the room, he’s assuming there’s no one watching him right now, and that likely means Ramsay and Reek really are alone in the Manor.  Or mayhaps whoever is left behind isn’t paying attention since Jaime’s supposed to be chained to a bed.  The real test will be when he gets out.

The door is locked, but he makes short work of picking it.  He slips through, the spring fragment still clutched in his hand.

He steps inside the room that’s on the other side of the two-way mirror, and as he expected, it’s empty, although there’s a full security set-up, with multiple views of the forest.

He spends the next several hours—he knows how much time passes because now he can see the sun and clocks in various rooms—thoroughly and quickly exploring the Manor and confirms he is completely alone.  He finds a kitchen and makes himself some eggs, knowing that unless the Boltons have figured out a way to drug the eggs inside their shells, those should be relatively safe to eat.  He drinks water from the tap that never tasted so sweet, then washes all the dishes he used and removes all traces of his presence.

Not that it matters if there are cameras recording his every move.

He creeps through the house again, more slowly this time, exploring every room.  He finds Reek’s bedroom, that carries his unmistakable stench, and in the opposite wing, he finds what must be Ramsay’s room:  large, dark, with pants thrown casually over the back of an armchair.

Jaime takes the opportunity to quickly shower and drags on what he hopes are clean pants from Ramsay’s closet.  They’re ill-fitting, too tight and too short, but better than nothing.

He finds no trace of Roose or Walda Bolton ever being resident in the Manor, and assumes Ramsay erased all signs of them once he murdered his father.

Jaime returns to the security room outside his cell and works the cameras, flipping from camera to camera in the forest, hoping to catch some glimpse of Brienne that will tell him where she is. Some of the feeds show nothing but snow and he smiles at that, because he chooses to believe that’s Brienne’s handiwork.  He continues cycling through the camera feeds—just in time to see Ramsay pulling up to the Manor on his ATV.

Jaime curses under his breath, then quickly runs up the stairs to the third floor and Ramsay’s bedroom.

*/*/*/*/*


	5. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Brief violence. So brief, it’s probably not worth warning about.

***/*/*/*/***

Brienne prowls around the Manor, staying hidden in the treeline while she follows the lights going on and off.  As night falls, what she assumes are subsidiary lights go on in each wing and on each floor…or else Ramsay has more servants than she expects.

She sees very little movement, however, not that it matters.  She still has Reek’s knife and her sharpened walking stick, now tied to her back by Reek’s clothes and belt she’d taken from him when?  That first day?  The second?

She feels half-mad with rage and grief and determination.  All she knows is she needs to get Ramsay where she wants him, and force him to tell her what happened to Jaime, and woe betide anyone else who might get in her way.

She doesn’t think about what she’ll do once she knows Jaime’s fate for certain.

*/*/*/*/*

She jimmies open one of the windows at the back of the Manor, then holds her breath, waiting for alarms to blare or more hounds to come bounding round the corner, or for another Reek to appear.

None of those things happen, and she slips inside.  She removes her ill-fitting boots then cautiously navigates her way through the dark room.  She pauses once she finds a door, trying to decide on a course of action.  His bedroom, she decides. If she can find Ramsay’s bedroom, then she’ll eventually find him.  If he doesn’t go to bed, then she’ll wait until she’s certain he should be asleep, and track him down then.

Either way, she tells herself grimly as she cracks the door open and peers past it into the dimly-lit corridor, this ends tonight.

*/*/*/*/*

She creeps up a back staircase to first the second floor then the third and quickly and quietly opens doors until she finds, near the front of the house, a bedroom that looks lived in.  It’s definitely not Reek’s, since she earlier found a room with his tell-tale odor.

She slips inside as the light in the corridor brightens.  She speeds to the large windows and glances out.  To her relief, there’s a balcony and she steps outside and presses herself against the wall just as the light turns on behind her.

*/*/*/*/*

It takes all Jaime’s willpower not to shout Brienne’s name when he, peering through the slats of the closet doors, sees her slip into the room.  But he also sees the hall light get brighter, and if either of them want to maintain the element of surprise, Ramsay can’t overhear them.

Still, Jaime has to rest his forehead against the door, and take a deep, silent breath as relief almost drives him to his knees.  She’s alive, he thinks, and blinks his eyes clear, and together, they’ll be able to get out of this in one piece.

The bedroom door opens and the light flicks on.

He tightens his grip on the cane he found in the back of the closet.

At least he _hopes_ they’ll be able to get out of this in one piece.

*/*/*/*/*

Ramsay is in a rage and spends the next few minutes destroying half his bedroom, grunting and growling out his anger as he throws everything that’s not nailed down against the walls.

Brienne waits until he stops and she can hear his harsh breathing even through the thin glass of the balcony door.  She takes a deep breath, then slides the window open and steps inside.

He spins round and his unusually pale eyes widen when he sees her.

She wonders what she looks like in the harsh light of the bedroom:  naked except for the belt she’d stolen from Reek; scraped, bruised, unwashed, unfed with a knife clutched in her right hand.  Still, the look on his face when he sees her makes her feel ten feet tall.

“ _You_ ,” he spits.

“Where’s Jaime?” she demands.

“I don’t know.  The bastard escaped.  I hope he’s out starving in the fucking forest!”

Brienne feels her limbs go weak with sweet, sweet relief.  She spins around, her knife at the ready as the closet doors and Jaime steps out and quickly positions himself between Ramsay and the bedroom door.

Her relief bursts into joy, even though Jaime, too, is bruised, and battered, wearing pants that are too tight and too short, his left hand wrapped tightly around a cane.  He looks ridiculous and dangerous and beyond beautiful.

Jaime’s smile at Ramsay is cruel.  “How do you like the game now?”

Ramsay glares from one to the other, and Brienne’s hand tightens on her knife as she watches him.  She wonders if he has a gun; if he’s going to surrender peacefully; if he’s going to make a break for it.

They stand in a frozen tableau then everything happens at once and is over almost instantly:  Ramsay rushes Jaime, who rams the cane into Ramsay’s stomach then hits him over the head with it.  Ramsay drops like a stone, screaming and clutching at his stomach and head.

Jaime rolls his eyes.  “For the gods’ sake,” he growls, “at least _pretend_ to be a courageous man!”

*/*/*/*/*

Jaime uses Ramsay’s cell phone to call the police while Brienne ties the man’s hands with the tie from his bathrobe and Jaime carefully watches Ramsay’s expression.

“You look too smug,” Jaime says once he hangs up the phone.

Ramsay’s thick, wormy lips twist into a sneer.  “This is the Dreadfort.  The Boltons have owned this town and everyone in it for generations.  Do you _really_ think you can stop me?”

A cold chill shivers down Jaime’s spine.  It’s true, he thinks, or at least the monster wearing human skin in front of him believes it to be true.

“Jaime?” Brienne says, concerned.

He meets her eyes.  “You should go see if you can find some clothes,” he says.

She frowns then her eyes widen.  “No, Jaime.”

“We have to stop him.”

“But we don’t have to become him!”

He stares unblinkingly at her then turns back to Ramsay.  “No,” he says, slow and thoughtful, “you’re right.  We don’t have to become him.”  Jaime leans close to their prisoner.  “But let me tell you something, Ramsay Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and all who live in it:  I have many friends in many walks of life.”  He leans closer still, his voice dropping to an almost seductive purr as he whispers, “And sooner or later, the hunter always becomes the hunted.”

Jaime smiles as he hears the approaching sirens, then he saunters out to the hallway, pulls a sheet out of the linen closet and brings it back for Brienne.  She reaches for it and he grasps her shaking hand, looking deep into her beautiful eyes he thought he would never see again.

“Hi,” he whispers.

Her bruised and swollen lips curve into a shy smile.  “Hi,” she whispers back.

He gives her a gentle kiss, and says, “Get wrapped up then go greet our guests.  I’ll keep watch over our prisoner.”

She nods and wraps herself in the sheet and heads to the door.  She pauses, her hand on the latch and says, “Will he still be alive when I get back?”

“If he behaves himself,” Jaime says.  Their eyes meet and he gives her a half-smile.  “I give you my word.”

She gives him a searching look, then nods and is gone.

*/*/*/*/*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** IkkiM had asked in a comment if Jaime had armed himself with a knife from the kitchen. I thought that was a brilliant question and I couldn’t remember at the time, but suspected I didn’t give him a knife. It wasn’t until I read this chapter again that I remembered that, in the first draft, he had dismantled the bed and had the spindles from the headboard with him. So I inadvertently disarmed him when I changed what happened with the bed…*facepalm*. The joys of NaNo writing – LOL!!


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Here be canon-compliant coarse language and sex. Not very explicit sex but a bit more than my usual fade-to-black.

***/*/*/*/***

The Dreadfort City Watch, when they arrive, are not alone.  Jaime and Brienne’s disappearances did not go unnoticed, and the Kingsguard themselves—the real ones, currently serving King Duncan III Lannister—are with the officers dispatched to the Dreadfort Manor.

Ramsay is taken into custody, then Jaime and Brienne are grilled, and no one other than the Kingsguard wants to believe their story...until they see the security footage of Brienne in the forest.  They search the Manor, the grounds, and finally the crumbling ruins of the castle where they find a door that leads to what used to be the Dreadfort’s dungeons.  There they find not only what is left of Roose Bolton, but also a skeleton they suspect is the remains of Lady Donella Hornwood-Bolton.

Not even those members of the City Watch who are so deep in the Boltons’ pockets they can’t see the sun can overlook that.

*/*/*/*/*

It’s takes sixteen hours before Jaime and Brienne are finally free to leave.  They’re both at least in borrowed clothes, have been allowed to wash themselves, and they’ve been fed.  When the bodies of Roose and Lady Donella are found, the Lord Commander of King Duncan III’s Kingsguard agrees to release them and smuggles them out of the station and into a hotel in Sheepshead Hills, with instructions not to return to King’s Landing until he gives them permission to do so.

They agree without argument and ride in exhausted silence to the hotel.  They follow their escort without saying a word, except to say they only need one room.  The Kingsguard leaves them with a nod and a promise to retrieve their belongings from the motel in the Dreadfort and deliver them the next day.

Jaime locks the door behind the man, then turns to look at Brienne.

Brienne stares at him, her face bruised and swollen.  At least the dirt of the Dreadfort forest has been washed away and her wounds have been tended to by the doctor the Kingsguard called in to do so.

Jaime walks to her and carefully, gently tugs her into his arms, mindful of her injuries.

Brienne stands stiff and unyielding for a long moment then throws her arms around him and wraps him in an almost bone-crushing hug, burrowing against him, and even though he knows she’s tender and sore, exhausted and emotionally shattered, his hug is just as fierce and crushing.

He feels her tears burning his neck just like his are soaking hers.

He laces his fingers in her tangled, still-filthy hair and lifts her head so he can see her face.  Her eyes are shimmering with tears, what skin isn’t bruised is a mottled red, and her nose is running.

She’s never looked so beautiful.

“Brienne,” he says, and his throat closes.  He chokes out her name again and then he’s kissing her, putting everything he is and everything he feels into it.

They should be careful, he thinks, even as she clutches at his shoulders, his waist, his hair.  There’s the sound of ripping cloth, but until he feels cool air against his skin, he doesn’t know if it’s his shirt or hers or both, nor does he care.

They should bathe, he thinks, as they fall on the bed.  He suckles her breast, his fingers stroking between her legs, finding that spot that makes her squeak his name, and she’s making those keening noises in the back of her throat that never fail to drive him insane with lust.  It’s all he can do to control himself when her hand closes over his aching cock then follows it with her mouth.

They should...get a condom, he thinks, as he moves away from her mouth, lifting her up so he can kiss her again, deeply, desperately, their tongues dueling.  She rolls them over, pulling him on top of her, her legs wrapped tight around his waist as she guides him to her slick heat.

He presses against her, the tip of his cock already inside her, before one tiny remnant of self-control takes over.  He lifts his head and looks down at her, wondering if he looks as crazed as he feels.

He says, “We don’t have—”

“I don’t care!” she cries, her fingers clutching desperately at his shoulders, his buttocks, his flanks, his face.

“Brienne—”

“I have other birth control,” she says, and he sees now she’s still crying, “and I thought you were dead, Jaime!”

“I’m all right, and I’m right here,” he says, wiping moisture from her bruised cheeks, and the sight of her beautiful eyes swimming with tears—tears for him—breaks him.  He enters her with one long, slow thrust, and she gasps with pleasure as he does so, until he stills on top of her, buried to his hilt.

“I love you so much, Brienne, and I was terrified they’d kill you,” he groans, and buries his face against her neck, even as it takes every ounce of self-control he has left to not begin moving, to drive into her hard enough to erase the last few days from both their memories, even if only for a moment.  “Gods, Brienne, _they could have killed you!_ ”

“I’m all right, and I’m right here,” she whispers in his ear before she nibbles on his lobe and flicks it with her tongue, making him shudder against her.  “Now prove to me we’re both still alive.”

He lifts his head and stares at her, searching her face, seeing the truth of her in her broad, bruised, freckled face, now blotchy from her tears.  She smiles a tremulous smile then tightens her arms and legs around him, and rolls her hips, and his control snaps, and the time for thought and talk is gone.

*/*/*/*/*

It’s only later, while they’re in the bathtub, her scrapes and wounds stinging, her poor, battered feet cleaned and propped up on top of Jaime’s to keep them out of the water, that Brienne remembers what Jaime had said.

She tenses and Jaime notices and for the first time, he pauses in his almost obsessive stroking of her breasts and torso and shoulders, touching her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he were to take his hands from her even for a moment.

“What?” he asks, his voice rumbling against her back.

“Did...did you say you loved me?” she blurts.

He chuckles, wrapping his arms around her.  He presses nibbling kisses against her neck and shoulder as he says, “There’s room here for me to say something about your observational and detective skills, but things were a bit... _intense_ , so I’ll let it go.  Yes, yes, I did.”

She twists to face him, water splashing over the sides of the tub.  She stares at him, her mouth sagging open.  “Did you mean it?”

He scowls even as he rubs his hand up and down her uninjured arm.  “I don’t go around telling just anyone I love them.  Of course I meant it!”

She continues to gape at him and his scowl deepens, tinged with uncertainty.  Then she abruptly flings her arms around him, kissing him wildly.

“I love you,” she whispers and he hugs her as tightly as possible, and between kisses, they say the words they hadn’t even known they needed to hear.

#####


End file.
